


Metamorphosis

by Starfire (kalypsobean)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputation, Angsty Bucky, Bucky Barnes Has No Prosthetic, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Returns, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Veteran Bucky, resolved angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:27:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/Starfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 6' tall with linebacker shoulders, blond hair and blue eyes, Steve Rogers is the All-American guy next door with thousands of followers on tumblr. He wasn't always like that.<br/>Bucky Barnes knew Steve before he acquired his tumblr following and his new body. Coming back from Iraq missing an arm and not knowing quite how to fit into Steve's new world, he reaches out the only way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gleefulfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gleefulfan/gifts).



i.

Things weren't always like this. Before the war, Steve and Bucky were friends, roommates, and platonic life partners, and everyone was okay with that. Before the war, Bucky chased girls as much as they let him and Steve sat back at their table in the corner and watched, but there was always a cold one waiting when Bucky came back with a number on his hand or his shirt only half tucked in. They'd go home together, watch a movie, and head to their separate rooms, and the next day Bucky would go to work and Steve would set up at the dining room table and they'd do it all again.

Bucky's still not sure what possessed him to leave that and go to war in the first place; it wasn't just the idea of getting girls because of a uniform, because Steve could have talked him out of that. The closest he's come, when he lies awake at night trying to work out where the sirens are going and where the lights are that seep through his window, is that somewhere deep down he knew things weren't right, that they couldn't stay like that forever, suspended in an easy but shallow camaraderie that he would never give up but wasn't quite enough. He didn't tell Steve he was signing up, at first; he did the testing and the medicals and only told Steve when he had a letter with all the details of where he had to report for basic that could do it for him.

He wishes Steve had clapped him on the back and said something falsely encouraging, but Steve had handed it back and left their flat; he came back with his own application and the day Bucky got on the bus was the day Steve's rejection came.

 

He can't fault Steve for moving on after that, even though he came home and his room was as he left it, his favourites were in the fridge, and Steve had somehow gotten hold of a welcome home banner. 

The party was kind of a flop when his friends saw him walk in with his dress shirt pinned at the sleeve; only Steve knew what to say, which was nothing.

 

There are things which have changed while he was gone: Steve filled out, the 24/7 turned into a Kwik-E-Mart, they got new neighbours. Steve got him a new phone - "It's a smart phone, Bucky, to do all the things you're too dumb for." - and set him up with a laptop so he could try to find a job, since obviously his old one at the docks wouldn't have him with only one arm. Bucky was grateful enough not to ask where the money was coming from; he'd reckon his mum was slipping it to Steve on the side if she were still alive, but there wasn't really an easy explanation, and Steve never offered. He still spent the mornings sketching at the dining room table, where he always said the sunlight was best, and Bucky normally came out of his room around lunch time. They'd spend the afternoon watching movies, so Bucky could catch up, Steve would make dinner, and Bucky would go back to his room and his bed, which, while uncomfortable, was the safest and most familiar place he knew.

As far as he knows, Steve never goes out on his own.

 

He can't sleep, again, and for a laugh or just out of curiosity, he types _Steven Rogers_ into Google. There are too many results for him to filter out which is his Steve, but he presses the 'images' button anyway. There is one of Steve, his Steve, some artist profile from a gallery, and Bucky presses it, expecting it will come up bigger.

Instead, the page reloads and shows thirty or so pictures of Steve, in varying degrees of half naked in what is definitely not an art gallery. In fact, Bucky thinks that might be Steve's room; the sketches pinned on the wall look about right, and that would be the tree outside the apartment that Bucky puked onto almost every time he got too drunk. This time, when Bucky presses on a picture, the least incriminating one, it brings up a bigger version and a button that says 'Visit page'. Which he does, and he would like to say he promptly closes the laptop and pretends to forget he saw it until it becomes true that he did, but Bucky has never been one to shy away from anything, even out of respect for a friend.

 

His mouth goes dry, his dick gets hard, and he reaches down and only remembers when he's trying to get his pants down and can't that he doesn't have that hand any more.

"Fuck," he whispers, and pushes the laptop away as the tears come again.

"Bucky, you okay in there?" Steve calls through the door, and knocks gently.

"Fine," Bucky says. "I'mma nap for a bit." He stays still until he hears Steve walk away, slow even footsteps that end when Steve gets to his room. His hearing's better now, which he thinks is weird, but he's kind of grateful that he can listen and know where Steve is in the flat at any given time. Like now. 

He pulls the laptop back and starts clicking things, almost without seeing them and yet every image stays clear in his mind long after he does try to sleep, for real.

 

ii.

Things weren't always like this, how Steve is so careful around him, how if Bucky's door is closed he probably wouldn't barge in even if he was dying with pneumonia. Or maybe he would; he hasn't been sick once since Bucky came back, so the in-case-of-emergency thing hasn't been tested. He's kind of relieved and annoyed at the same time; having space to adjust is nice and all, but he needs Steve to be normal, even if that means that sometimes he can't tell where he ends (at his shoulder, his mind helpfully supplies) and Steve begins. He can't adjust back to a world where everyone reminds him that he's different, they're different, and they can't go back. 

It's not that he wants to go back; he probably couldn't, if he tried, because his stupid brain won't let him forget all the things he now knows that normal people don't like how a rifle sounds close up and what a bomb looks like when it goes off and kills an entire town's worth of people and what it feels like to sleep in the middle of a desert with no idea if you'll wake up. But he'd like to maybe find his place in the world, and he's always been the kind of person to elbow his way to where he wants to be instead of having the crowd part before him, and he's always dragged Steve behind him.

Things aren't even reversed now, they're just, hanging like in some kind of limbo, in that moment where you know the guy in front of you set off a trip wire and something's about to happen and you don't know whether to go forward or back. He went outside and an ambulance went past with its siren on and he puked without even having a drink, and Steve said nothing when he came back in. 

He's come home and he has no idea how to act around Steve and it shouldn't even feel like acting, but it does because Steve's still that innocent good guy and Bucky's the dark dirty one who's done things just to stay alive. He's come home and it looks like home and it doesn't feel like home, and he doesn't have to look out for Steve or drag him to a bar because Steve's some kind of Tumbler god and can do it all for himself.

"Tumblr, Buck, no 'e'," he can hear Steve say in his mind. Well, Bucky knows that, because he went and found it and dear God, he found it and maybe bookmarked it and checks it every time Steve's out. He even gets notifications on his phone, not that he knows how to use it properly, but that he worked out, by accident.

He's screwed.

 

Steve's taken to making huge meals for lunch, like, restaurant size. Their little freezer is filled with containers that say things like 'Lasagne - 7/24' and 'Potato Bake - 7/21' and there's always a plate in the fridge that Bucky can put in the microwave if Steve's out when he emerges for food. 

Steve's out a lot, lately, and Bucky wonders whether he'd notice if the food was still there, whether he'd notice that half the reason Bucky comes out is to have some time with Steve. Steve has 311,412 followers, so probably not. It's not like they have anyone else to come and check on him either, because most of Bucky's friends from work didn't come back after the party when they saw his sleeve, and the one or two who tried didn't get that Bucky wasn't ready to go to a bar filled with loud noises and strangers who could be carrying. 

Bucky doesn't think he could get to the VA without Steve, either; New York has changed and left him behind, and he doesn't even have money for the subway. He knows there are cheques going somewhere, but Steve handles that.

Steve does everything, now, and Bucky's left with pictures and the covers pulled off his bed and a makeshift nest on the floor near the a/c duct where it's warmest.

 

Sometimes Steve talks on his tumblr, instead of posting pictures. Bucky holds onto the words like they're meant for him, because sometimes they're the only words he gets from Steve in a day. He knows, logically, that Steve is giving him space, because Steve is considerate, and because Steve says so, but he doesn't think he'll ever be able to go out and say anything to Steve, because Steve's never there. Steve is at the gym. Steve is at the organic market. Steve is at the pharmacy. Steve is someone else.

If Steve's going to just take over, the least he could do is take Bucky's good hand and drag him along. There are too many choices, otherwise; the world is too big, too new, too bright, and he needs help.

He needs Steve's help.

 

iii.

Things weren't always like this, because Steve used to be able to talk to him instead of posting things on tumblr like the one he's looking at now, put up just a day ago with a picture of Steve from three years ago and a matching one with yesterday's shirt thrown over his shoulder. 

_My best friend came back from serving, and I always told myself I was doing this to make him proud of me, so he could see I looked after myself while he was gone. Now I'm looking after him, too, and I have no idea what I'm doing, except I think I'm failing him because he made it look so easy and I'm struggling just making sure he has everything he needs._

There is a list underneath of people 'reblogging', whatever that is, and some people write sympathetic comments, but nobody says the thing that Bucky wants them to say, which is 'talk to him, dude'. Somehow, Bucky doubts Steve will come up with that on his own, let alone follow through; the idea of bringing it up himself is so big, though, that he has to put away the laptop and curl up with the covers over his face until the thought goes away. If Steve wants to sort things out and move on, he'll have to bring it up himself.

Bucky just has to get out of bed, first, but it's the only place that's safe. Steve doesn't barge in anymore, doesn't sit on the end of the bed and comment on Bucky's wardrobe as he dresses for a night out, or hold out a new sketch for Bucky's approval.

It's his fault, that they can't go back; Bucky knows this because every time it's almost the same, Steve's eyes slide left, and the conversation drifts and stops. Bucky is permanently changed in a way Steve can never forget.

 

Except Steve does, because he's at the gym more and more until the only thing left for Bucky to eat that doesn't involve leaving the flat is in the freezer. He hasn't had to master doing much with one hand, because Steve used to be there, doing them before Bucky had to ask. He hadn't complained about feeling stifled, or childlike, but the burden was obviously getting to Steve anyway; his fault too, probably, from not saying thank you enough or just needing help over and over. 

He's hungry, though, and he has to eat to take his evening pills even if he spits half of it back up before bed. The pizza menu is tempting, but he has to go down to the lobby to meet the driver and carry it back up; it's too hard, too much, at least now. Inspection of the freezer, however, show some containers labelled for today; he has a choice between lasagne, lamb and potato slice, and something called lemon honey bake. Steve makes the lasagne from his mother's recipe, and Bucky couldn't get enough of it when they were kids; Steve's is just as good, and he reaches for it, but pulls back. He would have to cut it, and with his luck he'd try and the layers would go everywhere, and the best part of it is the cheese melting through the mince and the flavours mixing on his tongue. He used to scrape the cheese off, when he and Steve went through a phase of liking all their food not touching, and it was just as nice licked off a fork, as long as it didn't burn his tongue. Steve makes it from scratch, though; his mom got it from a packet. The lasagne deserves better, Bucky decides, and the lemon honey bake looks to be already cut up, as if Steve meant it for him and just forgot to take it out.

That must be it. Steve has been so busy, between looking after him and keeping up with work and sketching and the gym that something was going to slip. It's just food; it wasn't Bucky's pills or paying the rent, just food. Bucky can't justify the anger or hurt that sits like a weight at the back of his mind, because he should be able to deal with it. It's just a container, but even with it pressed against his stomach to keep it still, he can't lever the lid off with just one hand. 

Bucky slides to the ground, tears pricking at his eyes and he would have let the helplessness wash over him, but that small kernel of anger won't let him. It comes out as a tremor in his hand and a phantom pain that makes him think he can push himself back up; of course he falls, and the pain in his good shoulder jolts any lingering self-pity from his mind.

He shouldn't have to depend on Steve like this, and things won't change if Steve won't talk to him, if he can't talk to Steve; because Steve is always out, Steve is busy posting pictures of his new abs on tumblr.

It occurs to Bucky that Steve's computer is probably still in his room, and Steve has always had a terrible memory. He doesn't know how long he has until Steve comes back, but he can't exactly do anything while he waits; he can't eat, he's done his exercises, and if he's honest with himself, he's really sick of his room.

Steve's room, on the other hand, is somewhere he hasn't been in a while, and of course, Steve's still logged in to tumblr.

Bucky's just about done when Steve makes a rather loud entrance, like his hands are full and he pushed the door open with his shoulder.

"I brought Chinese, Buck, you hungry?"

Bucky leaves the computer as he found it and finally, goes to get something to eat. At least he can use chopsticks with one hand.

 

iv.

Things weren't always like this, when even though they're sitting at the same table, sharing food from the same waxy cardboard boxes, Steve doesn't talk and Bucky doesn't know what to say. They used to talk about everything; Steve would tell him everything that happened while Bucky was at work, while Bucky was away, and his letters sometimes took months to reach Bucky on deployment because they were so thick they had to be screened with the care parcels.

Steve's on his phone, though, because it keeps starting up with the annoying fake-happy jingle that Steve says his friend Sam loaded on as a joke, and Steve keeps tapping the screen to make it stop after only a few notes. Bucky keeps looking at it even when it isn't sounding off, but Steve makes it through more food than Bucky remembers him eating in a single meal before he left, until finally, Steve swipes it from the table and unlocks it.

"Tumblr's gone nuts," Steve says as he stands and retreats to his room. Bucky knows he left things close enough to how they were that Steve won't notice, straight away, and he stares at the Mongolian lamb; Steve's left most of it, but Bucky can't bring himself to eat much. His mouth is dry and his hand is shaking, so most of what he picks up falls back to his plate before it reaches his mouth. The lamb looks good, though; it's more lamb than vegetable, though what carrots, cabbage and sprouts there are look soft and browned, the onion is almost clear, and the noodles are floppy. He could eat it, maybe, he might not even have to chew it, just put it in his mouth and swallow, because it looks that well-done that it could just melt.

He's just managed to pull the container over to his side of the table when Steve comes back, muttering under his breath about trends and likes as if it means something. His phone hasn't made the return trip, and Bucky lets go of the deep breath he'd didn't know he'd been holding.

"Gee, Buck, I didn't know you liked their lamb that much, I could have gotten a double."

"Next time," Bucky says, around the first mouthful of lamb and noodle that tastes better than it looked. They didn't have Chinese take-out before he left; it's one of the things that's changed and left him behind, though it is also one of the things that's been easier to adapt to. The nights Steve doesn't cook are no longer limited to greasy two-topping pizza and popcorn, partly due to the local borough's decision that the area needed more culture and partly because their budget is almost doubled because of his pension. Steve's also moved away from the kinds of food they used to rely on when Bucky made minimum wage and Steve was studying; he buys organic and cooks more, the chips and soda and chocolates are there mostly for Bucky's benefit. Although since living on rations Bucky's been a lot less picky, though he's grateful Steve didn't go vegan while he was gone because he could not handle not having bacon and this lamb after going without in the field. 

 

It only falls apart later, after Steve let him eat all of the lamb and the rest of the rangoons, the containers are in the garbage and Steve put the lemon honey bake in the fridge without saying a word. It's after Bucky went to his room and lay down on his bed, his arm behind his head, only when he's looking at the glow in the dark stars stuck up there by some person who lived there before he did, and he's half asleep even though he's not tired and he hasn't done anything all day except try to get food, post on Steve's tumblr, eat food, and lie down. He's still in yesterday's clothes, even; his skin is slightly filmy in that way that reminds him of how it felt to be out on patrol, his skin painted and days' worth of dirt and sweat, with the mission parameters to let him know what he can and cannot do, and the certainty that he was not alone, that the rest of his unit were spaced out around him knowing and thinking the same things.

He's not alone now either, because Steve's leaning on the doorframe, watching him doze and remember. Bucky stays still, stretches out the moment as long as he can, until Steve comes over and lies down on the bed beside him. Bucky scoots over towards the wall, and falls asleep for real with Steve on one side and the wall on the other; safe for the first time since he shipped home with no chance of going back out.

 

Steve's still there when he wakes up, the streetlights still on and the block still quiet. He takes the time to watch Steve, the same way Steve was watching him; he takes the time to see where the boy he knew is still there and where this new Steve fits around that, this part of Steve who likes healthy food and has muscles and doesn't alternate between the flu and bronchitis on top of whatever bug is going around.

He finds the dogged kid who got beaten up over and over in the scars still faintly visible on Steve's cheek, where he'd been ground into a brick wall before Bucky could get there. The moonlight catches the spots where the skin is just slightly indented, though at the time they thought the scabs would never go away even though Steve's mom put antiseptic oil on them every day. The guy who worked so hard to keep a part-time job and finish his degree so he could help Bucky afford the rent on the flat they had to move into when the lawyers took the house after Steve's mom died is there in the roughened hands and that blister under the third finger on Steve's left hand that never goes away. 

Bucky doesn't know what's left of him, but he trusts Steve to find it.

 

v.

Things weren't always like this, where he goes back to sleep after waking in the middle of the night and when he wakes again, it's with Steve's hands tracing patterns on his chest and around his shoulder. Steve doesn't ask if it hurts, or what it's like; Steve's seen Bucky crying because he tried to use an arm that wasn't there, after all. Steve's seen a lot and kept quiet, as if he knows Bucky's still not used to the questions they get when they're out.

Steve doesn't need Bucky to talk, not that they ever had to talk about their feelings in order to move on, though sometimes it took some vague coaxing and flat-out bribing, especially when Steve wanted to sleep forever instead of taking his pills. But Bucky always knew when to try and when to let things go. He can't find it in himself to blame Steve for being out of practice now things are reversed, not when Steve's done everything Bucky showed him how, not when Steve tried anyway.

He doesn't even blame Steve for turning to the internet for support.

 

He rolls onto his side so he can face Steve, so he can reach Steve without having to reach across his body and rely on sense memory that's still not caught up with Steve having wide shoulders and a defined waist. Steve takes it in stride; doesn't stop touching through Bucky's worn out tee and is careful to not bump into Bucky's own arm as he traces the same patterns over the circle on Steve's stupid gym tee. 

Steve shouldn't have to go to strangers for this. Bucky idly wonders how he wasn't jealous before now, but Steve leaning in, his breath warm on Bucky's skin and his lips dry and soft on Bucky's own, is answer enough. They didn't have this before, this thing that started before of either of them understood it, when Steve stepped up without complaining and Bucky just accepted it, was grateful for it, and did his best to take over the little things.

The way they're balanced, the shift and pull between them, has changed, and Bucky's not sure this would have been possible before. But now, he lets his arm fall back to his side as Steve pushes him onto his back, he lets Steve keep touching him, knowing that Steve won't ask him to strip until he's ready to be naked and touched at the same time, trusting that Steve won't be angry if he closes his eyes, breathes out, and just stops. 

 

The air around him feels warmer as Steve's nails slide down his arm, as he hears Steve's breathing change, becoming heavier and shorter. He reaches down, tugs on Steve's sweats, and Steve moves up, close enough for Bucky to reach in. Steve's hard, and it takes a minute for Bucky to remember what to do, how to transfer what he does on himself onto Steve and make it good. Steve's hands press down on Bucky's chest, suddenly still as if he's unsteady, and his breath becomes a slow hiss, barely more than an exhalation, as Bucky manages to wrap his hand around and form an even grip Steve's shaft. Steve's the one who forces Bucky's hand to move by shifting his hips, up and down, and then just a little bit forward. Bucky can feel Steve moving against him, there, and unlike his own attempts, it feels good, like the warmth in the air settles in his stomach and makes him feel safe, drives away the last of the cold of desert nights alone with a swag and lean-to covered in sand and leaves. He experiments, twisting his wrist a little; Steve's fingers twist in his tee and his knuckles knead on the scars across Bucky's chest. He winces; Steve stops and tries to pull away, but Bucky won't let go, not now. This is too important, them being close enough that their shadows can't be separated, Steve's attention on him and only him, and he can make Steve feel something more than the caring, the fussing, the wariness.

And Steve does feel; there's something accidental in the way Steve shifts away and Bucky doesn't let him go, the way Bucky lifts his hips to stop Steve moving, maybe in the way Bucky's hand is jolted by the way Steve settles back down or the way he leans down for a kiss. Steve's movements turn erratic, and then there's warm liquid falling on Bucky's hand. Steve falls down awkwardly, landing on his side with his head on Bucky's shoulder, close enough to taste the sweat just starting to stain through the fabric over the scars. 

Bucky pushes away Steve's hand when he tries to reach down. Steve gets it; he tugs on Bucky's hair instead, just growing out from being regulation cut, and kisses him on the cheek instead.

"Later," Steve says, and it's not long before he falls back asleep; Bucky's left to lie there with dawn peeking over the building next door to cast shadows on Steve's face where it's blocked by the rails of the flat's sorry excuse of a balcony. He watches Steve sleep, like he used to, and he doesn't mind having to reach across to brush Steve's hair away from the sweat on his forehead, making little damp spikes that fall flat again as soon as he takes his fingers away.

He could get used to this, the way things are.

 

vi.

Things weren't always like this, with the world too big for Bucky without Steve's hand on his back. Though now it's Steve guiding him through the double-doors of Kingsborough Community College for career counselling, Bucky was the one who pushed Steve into applying for Pratt and opened the letter for him when it came. 

If he's honest with himself, which he rarely is, he's kind of enjoying the way things are. It's nice to not have to worry about Steve all the time, since Steve's idea of taking care of himself is turning himself into a super-fit version of himself who gets sick less and wins half the fights he gets into. He still gets to patch Steve up, sometimes, and the asthma didn't go away, which they discovered when winter finally kicked in and then spring. It's summer now, but Bucky's got Steve's inhaler in his bag just in case, and Steve didn't object when he grabbed it off the counter.

If he's really honest, he'll tell Steve he's kind of glad that things happened the way they did, but he's not up to it yet; it feels big, too big to just put out there, but it fills his heart even so. This balance is something he treasures, like they earned it. 

"Think you could see yourself here?" Steve asks him, and Bucky shakes his head, more to clear his thoughts and less to say no, though as he looks around he does feel it's too big for him; there's too many people, too many doors, and Steve won't be there, in the next room. 

"We can ask if you can do courses at home, if you like?" Bucky's still not sure; it doesn't fit, not the way Steve fits, pressed against his side with an arm slung around his waist. Not the way Steve knows to take them home once the lady's pushed enough brochures across the table that Bucky's eyes are swimming from trying to understand them all. He's always been the type to look out for others and do what he's told, not the college type who goes out there and leads and learns, not like Steve.

 

It spills out when they're home, when Steve reaches for the Chinese menu even though it's a cooking night. "We fit together," he says. 

"Yeah, Buck, we do," Steve says. He doesn't ask what Bucky wants, just orders and writes down the amount for the budget book. "Always have," he says, too, but Bucky remembers when they didn't, when he was too raw to press up close and take what he wants, the way he does now, kissing Steve's cheek before ducking away.

"Still proud of me, I see," Steve says, and turns. "Go shower and stuff, I'll go meet the food." Even that makes Bucky smile instead of ache, now; he likes to shower when he's come in from outside, washing off smells that don't belong inside, and Steve just accepts it instead of thinking it's weird or wrong, like the guys at the VA the one time Bucky tried a meeting.

Steve's all the support he needs.

 

_Hi everyone, I'm Steve's roommate, the one he's been talking about all the time on here. I gotta say, I'm not sure how this thing works, but I'm glad you all were there for him when I was overseas. Steve's had it rough and I always looked out for him. Now I'm back, things are changing, and I know it's stupid to expect things to go back the way they were, but I miss my best friend and how easy it used to be to be around him. He's gone a bit shy, and I don't know what to say all the time either, so it's really just awkward. Like telling a bunch of strangers on the internet is awkward, but me and Steve don't have to live with you guys so it's easier. I guess this is practice for me telling him that it's okay to say the wrong thing or mess up, but I can't stand the silence anymore and I want us to try to move forward, to go further, even if I'm having a bad day or he's having a bad day or whatever._

_Anyway, since you all seem to like Steve's photos, here's one of me. I haven't been Stateside long enough to lose the abs, but I think Steve's got me beat in the arms._


End file.
